Ocean Kills:Book One of Ocean Breeze

By: Jade Hart

Book One of Ocean Breeze

Chapter One: Ocean

My name is Ocean Breeze. Yep. Ocean freakin' Breeze. It was my mom's attempt at some posh-sounding name. She was inspired by—get this—a bottle of toilet air-freshener. My heart squeezed at the thought of the cookie-scented woman with hugs as warm as sunshine.

The sound of my Nikes pummeling the pavement chased away my thoughts. The slapping of rubber against asphalt was similar to the slap the last prostitute-abusing john gave me. Stinking bastard. No one raises a hand to Ocean Breeze without losing an appendage. Or more, as the case may be.

I swiped my hands on my red vinyl miniskirt. It wasn't exactly an attractive outfit—Nikes with a miniskirt? But I've learned the hard way. Running in heels never worked. Ever. The sleazy men who paid for sex didn't care what was on my feet, only what was between them.

I jumped and jived through the crowd. It was two in the morning, and the streets of Kings Cross, Sydney, were a hive of activity. Drunken students hauled themselves from karaoke clubs. Rich business men back-slapped each other for the lap dance from the uni-student, who pocketed their tips to pay for her law degree. This place was full of clichés and smut.

And I loved it.

I could disappear here. I was a nobody. Even boasting a pair of ruby lips and a figure that could've graced the center fold of Playboy, I didn’t stand out. Beauty was coveted in the Cross, and plastic surgery was the salvation if nature didn’t do the work.

So why was I running?

I just killed a guy. That's why.

I bolted past the three-story-sized Coca-Cola advertisement, blazing red and white, and disappeared into an alley full of meth-heads and crack whores. I leaped over comatose figures, sprinting toward the city center. Keep running. Get far away.

The night was heavy with muggy heat, unusual for this time of year, and sweat made my miniskirt slide against my thighs.

Fuck! I pirouetted and charged down another alley, passing a gay club blasting Kylie Minogue. Ugh.

“You! Stop!”

Yeah, no chance of that, fat douche. I flipped him the bird and kept running. He jumped back in his cruiser and gave chase. Lazy bastard. Too many kebabs and doughnuts for that slob. He wouldn't catch me. No one ever caught me.

My ruby lips curved. I loved the chase. I loved the kill. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. I didn’t enjoy murdering someone, but I did enjoy the knowledge that he’d never hurt another. My cut throat actions saved other would-be victims. Plus, that john deserved it.

Memories overtook my vision. Heavy breath on my cheek, rancid smell as he slobbered on my neck. Then warm, oozing blood as my weapon of convenience—a long skinny oyster knife—buried deep in the man's groin. Ridding him of a vital piece of his anatomy and draining his body of crimson. One moment alive, the next—not. Then rushed practicality: Dispose of my surgical gloves. Wipe the corpse with antiseptic wipes. Remove the man's DNA, fingerprints, and blood from my body.

Adrenaline spiked, dousing my already overloaded system. My heart thudded as fast as the bass at a techno club. The pavement flickered and I stumbled.

No, not now! My vision danced like a mirage. I no longer had control of my body.

No amount of yelling could stop the migraine from consuming me. I screamed and clutched my temples, slamming to the concrete. The sidewalk danced under my phantasm goggles, no longer acting like rock and tar, but candy floss and gossamer. I'm going. I'm going. . .

Cold claws grasped my bare shoulders. “You're coming with us.”

No! The unrelenting crush of pain ricocheted in my skull. I wanted to die. Cuffs shackled my wrists, and I was dragged, then stuffed into the back of a police car.

The agony danced with nausea, tangoing in a way that tested my stomach’s willingness to evacuate its measly contents.

Precious minutes passed while I grappled with the migraine. When only a gentle pounding remained, I opened my eyes. I didn't know where I was.

The tense shoulders of policemen kick-started my breathing. I narrowed my eyes. It was quite a predicament to be shackled in the back seat of a police vehicle.

I glared at the fat, uniformed man who'd cuffed me. “You have no reason to arrest me.” Please tell me they didn't find the john. There was no way they could’ve found him already. And I knew there wasn't a drop of blood on me. There never was. I was clean. Efficient. Ruthless.

While I waited to be graced with an answer, the lull of the car tires slowed my heart, and the rest of my headache seeped back like a tide.